


cityscape

by glassy_light



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: a little drabble from a bazillion years ago!! (...january), feel bad about never posting so, im here to spam and then retreat back into my hermit hovel for another two months rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassy_light/pseuds/glassy_light
Summary: Marcus' first kill.
Kudos: 2





	cityscape

**Author's Note:**

> you know those wayne thiebaud cityscapes, the ones of twisting city streets and hills, all in coldish colors? idk i was thinking about marcus on top of buildings & this happened. also the ammount of times i wrote "marucs" in the draft was hysterical :')

Marcus was sweating horribly, which he took as a dooming premonition of how the hit would go. He had landed in L.A that morning, took a cab to his hotel and sat on the edge of the bed for longer than he should have, dabbing his brow and trying to fill that space of hollow worry with long gulps of tap water. The room was white and isolated, the same way a school is after hours, or a confession during a snowstorm. He absorbed the stillness like a sponge and tried to calm down.

But now he stood on the burning concrete roof of a downtown office complex, next to him on the jut of concrete the bag for his rifle. As he screwed and clicked the pieces together, rubbing his thumb along the cold cylinder of the silencer, he thought about moving out of his shared apartment, about paying for his mother's house. Tried not to think about the pinching twist of handcuffs and getting an empty dial tone with his one call. Maybe he would apply for a few classes at the downtown community college. Or invest in something. 

Winston promised good pay, and it was money that Marcus itched for. He was convinced that he would do anything to relieve some of the stressors of living at the bottom of the barrel, from paycheck to paycheck, and this was only solidified by his willingness to commit a primal sin: the murder of another man. We all have to eat.

From his pocket, he unfolded a wrinkled photograph. His mark stared back from the glossy, wet-paint sheen of the picture. The man had a stern face, but couldn't have been much older than himself. He didn’t feel bad about it. Marcus checked his watch: 9:15. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. There was time. 

In some ways, the city was nothing like New York, and in others it was exactly like it. He found the west coast to be a nervous imitation of his home, but it was easy enough to slip into it like a second skin. He could read it and breathe it and become it, but that didn’t mean he liked it. It was an almost unconscious effort on his part, already a habit. 

He took a deep breath and worked his mouth over the memorized specifics Winston had rattled off to him two days prior. The fluid world of the city rushed on around him. He stood motionless under the sun.

30 minutes till and he started to sharpen. His hands were steady, leaden, even, but his blood pounded like water over rocks in his ears to the rabbit beat of his heart. He dutifully watched a man similar in profile to his target and then dismissed him as a false vision. A woman left a shop, and he watched her limp under the weight of a large bag. A dog walker. A nanny. A couple. All marching by, small against the world, while Marcus looked on from above. He checked his watch again. Five more minutes. The mirrored windows of the adjacent complex reflected his building exactly, but he could not see himself in it.

A red car, beetle-like below him, flattened into the concrete by the distance, pulled to a stop against the curb. Another couple flitted by. Two minutes. He could be early. Marcus leveled his rifle, the sight hovering over the car door, and waited.

A well-dressed man stepped out. Marcus followed him with the barrel. Held his breath. His mark was a moving picture without the lacquer. His finger was already lightly pressing the trigger, the safety off. Then the man, in coincidence or woven fate, tilted his head back and looked up. 

Marcus startled, and his first shot shattered the glass over the man’s shoulder. He steeled himself and tried again, the bullet caught in his hand, and the man dropped his briefcase and started to run, head whipping back and forth in a wild attempt to know his fortune, eyes running over everything but never stopping to focus. 

The final blow nosed into his chest softly, the way a puppy presses its face into your palm. For good measure, Marcus caught him again as he fell, watching as the man hit the pavement, and even that seemed soft, like a deep heavy curtain of sleep had been drawn. He could breath; he was level headed. On the street below, people were scattering like ants. He unclicked and unbolted and unscrewed. When he went down the staff elevator to the ground floor, rifle in a black bag slung over his shoulder, he was certain.

When Marcus got back to his hotel, he called Winston over the landline in his room. The shade of the lamp on the bedside table was thick with dust. He turned to look out the window, where a cleaner was smoking a cigarette, hand nervously shaking the ash into the wind. Behind her, the parking lot was empty.

“Marcus?” Winston’s voice was as loud as ever, despite having the whole country between them. He sounded like he had a headache; Marcus could picture the tight set of his mouth.

“Yes. I did it.” He didn’t mention his slip up. Winston would find out by the time his plane landed in New York the next day; he could pay for it then.

“Alright. Good. We can talk when you get back. I’m all tied up with the Russians-” Marcus let himself have the satisfaction of hanging up first. He could see himself making a lot of money this way, and he thought about the possibility in it as he folded the few things he had brought. A grey shirt. Slacks. Things that were universally invisible. It wasn’t so hard; he was good at watching. The woman ground her cigarette into the concrete and moved out of sight.


End file.
